


The Cracker Box

by Evenlodes_Friend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Christmas (tenuous), Christmas Tree, John's POV, Lingerie, M/M, Now Complete!, Post Reichenbach, Public Humiliation, Sex Toys, Sexual Humiliation, Sexual Violence, Silk - Freeform, Voyeurism, post reunion, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return, Sherlock is hiding a dark and bitter secret from John.  But John is struggling with a darkness of his own.  Daily Updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teiresias' warning

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in incubation for a very long time. Its pretty dark stuff to start with, but it gets smuttier and happier. I promise. Not mine; ACD, Gatiss, Moffatt etc etc. you know the routine.

            Since he came home, he hasn’t been right.  I’ve watched him.  Yes, he goes through the motions, he’s as brilliant on a crime scene as ever, but something is missing.  The fire has gone out of him.  I catch him watching me sometimes.  There is pain in his eyes.  I know he is aware of how much he hurt me.  Or at least a little of it.  How can he know the real truth?  How could he know when he wasn’t there?  At the graveside?  Through the long nights?

            I say nothing.

            Nothing about his suffering.  Nothing about mine.

            He has started going out at night sometimes, disappearing for hours at a time.  When he comes back, he looks terrible.  Sometimes there are bruises.  He won’t talk about them.  He’ll sleep afterwards for days at a time.  Then says nothing.  Just watches me across the room when he finally gets up, eyes sunken and smudged blue, skin drawn back against his skull.

            I can’t comment.  It’s not as if I’m unscathed.  I know he is aware that I am drinking.  There are bottles stashed all over the house.  I don’t just hide it from him.  I hide it from myself.  I’m as broken as he is.  I’ve lost my bottle (oh, the irony).  I’m the adrenaline junkie who’s lost his nerve.  The nightmares dog me.  I watch him bleeding out on the pavement every night.  I stand by his tombstone every day.  The marker of my life lost for three years.  The marker of trust destroyed.

            We revolve around each other in the flat, going through the motions, a pair of gyroscopes digging our own separate grooves.

            Tonight, he seems visibly strained.  I can see something is desperately wrong.  It’s not the way it was before, when he’d get wound up and I could shout at him, or calm him, or take him out and find a case to distract him.  There is something in him that I can’t reach now, some hard kernel that is beyond boyish banter or bickering or friendly admiration.  I am afraid I am watching him nose dive, and I can’t stand it anymore.

            Tonight, I follow him.

            I am doing the unthinkable.  Don’t trust him?  Damn right. Why should I, when he tricked me all that time?  Besides I’ve got a flask of Dutch courage in my breast pocket.  A few drinks these days and I’ll tackle anything.  Including Mycroft.

            I follow Sherlock through the evening streets, the pavements slick and shiny with slews of reflected shop lights.  Everything shimmers.  It is a fortnight before Christmas and London is lit up, but Sherlock is like a black hole, six feet of velvet anti-matter that sucks in light and melds with the darkness. 

I follow his scent: the cinnamon of his aftershave, the damp wool of his Belstaff overcoat, the green apple of his shampoo, the stench of his misery.  I follow him doggedly to a back alley between warehouses, a ghost-town since the banking crash.  Now these hangars are used for raves and unlicensed boxing matches and all manner of fleeting goblin markets.  I watch him slip inside like the thief that he is, and I settle into a doorway to wait.

            Cars start to pull up, disgorging passengers, some women, mostly men; elegantly dressed, an expensive clientele.  Bouncers appear to man the doors, but they are not the average either.  Expensively dressed like the punters, and smooth skinned, these are the kind of men for whom this is a quick moonlighting job, a little extra pocket money on top of their usual round of celebrity protection.  I can smell their sickly synthetic aftershave from my shadows.

            A black limousine draws up just short of the door, but this one I recognise.  The door opens wide and I get in.

            Mycroft, in heavy woollen overcoat, leather gloves and serious face.

            ‘This is not something you want to do, John.’

            ‘You know what’s going on, don’t you?’

            ‘You need to understand that you can’t save him from this.’

            ‘You mean, if you can’t, you won’t admit I _can_.’

            ‘This is a side of my brother you do not want to see. I know how you think of him, how you revere him.  Please, don’t go in there.’

            ‘Are you begging me, Mycroft?’

            ‘Would there be any point in doing so?’

            ‘I don’t know.’

            ‘Then yes, I’m not above begging.  This as much a plea for your sake as for Sherlock’s.  You make him twice the man he once was.  Without you, he is nothing, and he knows it.  To go in there now will risk all of that.  Every man has his darkness, John.  You know that better than anyone.  Perhaps you should let him alone in his, as he does you in yours.’

            I don’t take my eye from his while I pull the silver steel flask from my pocket and drink.  If he knows already, I’m not going to hide it from him.  I’ll flaunt it if I have to.

            ‘So you want to self-destruct too?’  He raises an eyebrow, sad not sardonic for once.

            ‘Mycroft, you tell _me_ if you’re so clever.  If Sherlock’s out to self-destruct, what’s the point in my not following his lead?  That’s what everyone thinks I do anyway.’

            ‘But we know better, don’t we?  You and I?’

            I examine him carefully.  I don’t know if he is playing me, flattering, manipulating me the way he always has, or if he is really as genuinely concerned as he looks.  There is a deadness about his eyes these days.  Does he know he has already lost his little brother?  Is he really so prescient?

            ‘We should rename you Teiresias,’ I tell him, and get out of the car.

            He follows me, calls out one last time.  ‘Don’t do it, John.  You’ll always regret it.’

            I don’t look back.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow, John finds out what is in the dark room…


	2. Special Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers what is going on in the dark room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here beginneth the sex.

          The arrivals tail off.  Whatever is going on in there must be in full swing by now.  The bouncers have retreated behind the glass doors to the lobby, and are chatting companionably.  I can’t hear the booming bass of a sound system, so it can’t be some kind of up-market drugs party.  I run through the clientele, try to picture what such people might be interested in that would involve Sherlock, or that would so worry a man with as few scruples as Mycroft.  But I’m not Sherlock, and I know it.  The whole thing is a mystery and there’s only one way to crack it.  I’ll have to go in there.  It’s that, or wait till the morning and try and interrogate Sherlock when he comes out.  If he’s in any state to talk, which I’m willing to bet he won’t be, judging by previous experience.

            So I take another drag from my hip flask, tug at my coat collar and cuffs to make myself look a little more reputable, and set off across the road.

            The bouncers actually open the door for me.  They ask for ID.  I give them my drivers’ license.  They glance at it, not very thoroughly, and check a list.

            ‘Yeah, he’s cleared.’

            Mycroft’s doing, no doubt.

One of them shows me through a small lobby.  Beyond that, all the walls are painted black.  Everything is black.  The air feels thick and dusty.  There is a smell of wine.  It is cold.  The man opens a final door for me, and says softly,

            ‘Enjoy the show, sir.’

 

* * *

 

 

            There are four rows of seats arranged in a semi-circle around an open space that might be called a performance area.  There are harsh spot lights in the roof.  The audience is silent, only the occasional cough or the rubbing of fabric to denote someone shifting in their seat.  They are watching a show.  A spectacle.

            A woman dressed in black shows me to a chair near the front.  It’s a good view.

            Mycroft was right.  It’s a view I don’t want.

 

 

* * *

 

            There is a sawhorse in the middle of the open space.  He is bent over it.  The unforgiving light gleams on his pearlescent skin.  His wrists are tied behind his back, then attached to a rope that goes up to a pulley on the ceiling, dragging his arms back behind his head.  His features are criss-crossed by a leather harness.  He is strapped down, face towards the floor, legs spread, stark naked.  Complicated knots squeeze around his engorged and discoloured penis, distorting it, forcing it down between his legs painfully, like a cow’s udder. 

A shoal of helpers flutter around him, adjusting the machine that is pounding a huge rubber dildo into his exposed arse.  They are keeping it lubricated as it plunges in and out.  At his head, two naked men are taking turns to force their cocks into his mouth until he gags, bile and spit slicking his chin, spattering the black-painted floor.  They grab his curls, yank his head up cruelly, allow him to suck in a little air through his nostrils before they assault his beautiful mouth again.

Periodically, one of the helpers, another woman dressed in black, will use a paddle to slap viciously at his white rump until it turns an angry red, or unties the rope from its cleat and pulls on it, forcing his shoulders and arms back, closer to dislocation.  Someone attaches cruel-looking metal nipple clamps.

Sometimes he is asked if he wants to stop, or if he wants to come.

            ‘No,’ he wails.  ‘No!  I don’t deserve it!’

            He snorts and chokes and gags and coughs and sobs.

            And keeps saying thank you.

            And we watch in breathy silence.

            It is a strange kind of theatre, watching this beautiful man’s public humiliation in the most appalling manner possible.  I want to look away, but also, I don’t.  It is like a car crash.  I want to watch every last, ghastly moment, see all the blood and gore and horror, even though I want to look away.  In fact, I know I should.  I don’t.  I watch with all the well-heeled punters who have no doubt paid extravagantly to watch the degradation of my closest, dearest friend.

            Eventually, something of an interval comes, and though no one moves in the audience, the scene is changed. 

            Sherlock is untied and helped up, his well-being checked.  He is given water, examined for wounds, apparently pronounced well enough to go on.

            There are metal tracks in the ceiling from which chains dangle.  The helpers attach a leather sling, a chain at each corner, two in the middle to support the torso, and Sherlock is strapped into it, whilst the fucking machine and the trestle are cleared away.  Someone forces a ball gag into his mouth.  He whimpers.  Chokes a little.  Strains against his bonds.  His legs are spread wide.  As he swings, helpless, I see the reddened knot of his arse and the tension in his thighs.  They inject his anus with lube using a syringe.  Then do the same again and again, till he is dripping.  Then pronounce him ready.

            The helpers start going through the audience, inviting men to stand up and take part.  One comes to me.  I get up, unthinking, and take my place in the line.  The women take our clothing, neatly folded.  We stand naked.  I realise now what we are going to do.  Twenty of us, each with his cock in his hand.

            Oh, God.

            I hear him crying out through the ball gag as the first man in the queue penetrates him.

            All the common-sense medical knowledge is running like a ticker-tape behind my eyes, the pertinent points (HIV, AIDS, Hep, STDs and such like) highlighted in red capitals on the screen of my vision.  No one is offering condoms and I realise that is the point.  The thrill is in the risk.  Have we pushed adrenaline addiction to its obvious conclusion, I wonder, as the man at the head of the queue, the man who is fucking Sherlock’s perfect arse, shudders and swears. 

One down. 

There are another thirteen men in front of me. 

I watch each one of them take and fuck the man I love.  I watch them put their cocks into his body and use him like a lump of meat.  I watch them orgasm.  I watch him writhe and squeal through his gag, tears running down his perfect cheeks.  His curls are slicked to his head now.  As I get closer I can see the sweat running down his body, the tendons over-extended, every defined muscle hyper-tense.  His cock slaps wetly against his belly as they fuck him, a clear, tacky string extending from its tip.  The helpers ask him again and again if he wants to continue, if he needs to come.  He shakes his head frantically.  He moans as another man thrusts into him.

            He wants this.  Nothing could be clearer.

            And then it is my turn.

            I run my hand tenderly over his stomach. 

He seems in a kind of trance, his eyelids heavy, snorting through his nose for air because of the gag, delirious with sensation.  I want him to know it is me, which is why I touch him.  I _need_ him to know.  I want to give him my tenderness in the midst of all this degradation.  He raises his head and blinks, pupils dilated, and I know he is barely able to focus.

I whisper his name, I run my hand across his skin a second time, and the muscles ripple a response.  He has recognised me. 

He moans.

And I want him.  Suddenly, desperately, with every cell in my body, I want him.

It doesn’t matter that the seed of fourteen other men is oozing from his raw and broken-down anus.  It doesn’t matter that there are another five strangers behind me.  It doesn’t even matter that there are a hundred other people sitting in the gloom around us, watching.

I slide into him on a cushion of other men’s come.  He recognises me inside him with a hungry clench, a guttural groan.  I thought he would be loose from all that fucking, but he tightens for me.  Perhaps just for me.

He lifts his head and meets my eye as I start to move, to love, slowly pistoning my hips.  I grip his waist and will him to understand.  He could always see into my soul just by looking at me.  Look deeper, Sherlock, I rage inside my head as I lean forward.  Look deeper and feel my love.

He cannot touch me, cannot move or respond except with inarticulate noises, and with his eyes, those beautiful eyes that change colour with his mood.  Right now they are almost green, and they look up into mine and it is as if I feel him speak inside my head:

‘Please?’

I come.

It is that comprehensive, that sudden, that deep.  An orgasm is ripped out of my body by his eyes.

My cock spills out of his body on a flood of fluid.  My knees are giving out.  A helper guides me away, even though I want to tear Sherlock out of that bloody sling and carry him off like some fairy-tale damsel.  He does not look at me again; his eyes do not follow me.  He has to be fixed on the next fuck.  I hear him squeal as the next man forces his way inside.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dressed and shaking, I stumble out into the cold night air.  I reel and stagger along the pavement, expecting at any moment Mycroft’s car to appear, but it doesn’t. He has washed his hands of me.  Of both of us, I expect.

            I bend down and vomit into the nearest drain.  Then I fall onto my hands and knees like a drunk, and I sob for my beautiful Sherlock and what the night may yet have in store for him.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow, John confronts Sherlock...


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys face up to the truth of what has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delivery of the Johnlock train might get a bit erratic over the next couple of days as, due to a family emergency, I have to find a way to organise internet access where there is none at present. But I will still endeavour to post a chapter every day for your reading pleasure.

           It is 5.30am.  Somehow I have made it back to the flat and showered with surgical grade cleanser.  My cock is still stinging from its effects.  It’s a first line of defence, and not much of one at that, and it makes me feel cleaner.  Less like a rapist, anyway.

            I sit on the sofa, smelling of antiseptic, feeling queasy and ashamed.  My hand shakes.  Periodically I cry a little, then try to pull myself together, take a deep breath, be a man.  It works for about ten minutes.  Then I just cry again.

            The door opens.

            He leans against the doorjam, his face ghostly white.

            ‘Why did you?’ he breathes.

            I go to him, hold him up.

            ‘I need to examine you,’ I tell him.

            ‘No, they do that afterwards.  Full cleansing and examination, part of the deal.  Wouldn’t do it otherwise.’

            He is weaving a bit.

            I put his arm around my shoulders and help him to his bed.  He can’t sit down so I put him onto his side, then pull his shoes and socks off.

            ‘You shouldn’t touch me,’ he murmurs.  ‘I’m disgusting.’

            ‘You aren’t disgusting.  You’re beautiful.’

            He doesn’t believe me.

            I help him shed overcoat and jacket, start to undo his trousers.  His hand grabs mine to push it away.  For a moment his eyes flare.

            ‘You need to get these off,’ I explain.  ‘Put something soft and loose on, if you can’t sleep naked.  Give the air a chance to circulate.’

            ‘Yes,’ he relents, seeing the sense.

            I find soft pyjamas, help him into them, to cover his nakedness.

            ‘Are you injured?’

            ‘Just strains.  No worse than other times.’

            I hold his head, help him to lie back onto the soft pillow.  His eyelids flicker.

            ‘Just tell me why,’ I beg.

            He turns away.

 

* * *

 

 

            We are lying side by side, staring at the ceiling.  It is the middle of the day, and the city is busy outside the window, unknowing of the crisis inside this gloomy bedroom.  Somehow we have both slept in the interim, but now we are wakeful and wretched.

            ‘Why did you do it,’ he whispers finally.  ‘Why couldn’t you leave well alone?’

            ‘I was scared,’ I confess.  ‘I didn’t want to lose you again.’

            Even though I lost him months, years before.  Perhaps for good.  He was not the only person he killed when he stepped off that roof.

            ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I say.

            ‘You don’t want to know.’

            ‘I do.’

            He is silent for a while.  Then he speaks.  His voice is soft in the muffled stillness of the room.

            ‘I hurt you.  I deserve to be punished.’

            ‘You’re trying to destroy yourself,’ I point out.

            ‘I hurt you in the worst way.  Permanently.  I deserve no quarter.’

            ‘Permanent is a strong word, Sherlock.  It takes away any possibility of forgiveness or redemption.  It takes away my choice.’

            ‘What I did was unforgivable.’

            ‘Was it?  Only I can tell you if I have it in me to forgive you.  It’s not your call.’

            He stares at the ceiling.

            ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’  I want to know, even though I know it is better not to.  I have come too far, know too much now, to stop.

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Tell me.’

            ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

            ‘Then help me to.’  I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at him.  Even though the corners of his mouth are cracked and scabbed, even though his eyes are circled with purple shadows and his right cheek is bruised, he is still the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.

            ‘You couldn’t understand,’ he says.  ‘You’ve always been wanted.’

            ‘What do you mean?’ I frown.

            He stares resolutely at the light fitting.  ‘I’m rude and obnoxious, John.  I’m a freak, remember?  Why would anybody want me?  The answer is that nobody does.  Nobody ever has.  But _they_ want me.  Even if it is only to use my body.’

            He turns onto his side and looks up defiantly into my eyes.  ‘Last night,’ he says, ‘I had the come of twenty different men inside me.  Twenty men who wanted me.  I’ve never been wanted like that in my entire life. 

‘You can’t possibly understand that.  Women want you, they desire your pretty smile and your, your’ – he stutters as he struggles for a word that suits this vicious resentment building in him.  ‘Cute bum.  Cute, that’s what you are, and women, _people_ , adore that.  Well, I’m not adorable.  People don’t want me, John.  And I don’t deserve to be wanted.  So I give them what they _do_ want.  I let them fuck me and humiliate me and hurt me because _that’s_ what they want.’

            It all comes out in an angry, hurt tirade.  I am reminded of that moment in Devon, after he saw the Baskerville Hound, when he doubted the evidence of his eyes, of his observation.  It was the first time in his life he had ever questioned his magnificent skills, his self-worth hanging in the balance.  I realise how much he hates himself, and how much he hates the people who don’t want him, who don’t understand him.

            My eyes sting.

            He goes on staring at the ceiling.

            I touch his cheek and he looks up at me, but his eyes are guarded.

            ‘Don’t pity me,’ he snarls.

            ‘Sherlock, can’t you see?’ 

            Perhaps there is something in the tone of my voice, some plea he has missed before.  He tilts his head, refocuses.  He is examining me a second time, reassessing.

            I lean down and kiss his lips very softly, as delicately as I can.

            ‘I love you.’

            Our noses brush.  He looks up at me, his eyes pale.

            ‘Don’t be sentimental.  I said I don’t want your pity.’

            ‘This is not pity, this is love.  Desire.  Want.  Whatever you want to call it.  You say you’ve never been desired, but you were last night, and it had nothing to do with the nineteen strangers who fucked you.  Don’t you know you are everything to me?’

            He blinks, and I watch as he slowly assimilates the information.   His lips part fractionally.

            I caress his cheek with my fingertips.

            ‘Whatever it is you need from them, I can give it to you.  Don’t go there again, for God’s sake.  Stay here with me.  I’ll fuck you and beat you and tie you up if you really want, but at least you’ll be safe.  I don’t care about anything else except that.  Please, Sherlock?’

            The tears can’t be held back any longer and neither can the desperation.  I am pleading with him for my own life as well as his. 

            ‘It’s a simple choice and it comes down to this:  stay here with me, and let me love you and desire you and give you what you need safely, or go out there and give up your life to those strangers who don’t care about anything except their own orgasms.  You can get HIV or Hepatitis, or get strangled with a plastic bag over your head, and I’ll just keep on drinking myself to death, and we’ll both waste our lives and die, and be done with it.  It’s your choice.  But I’m begging you, Sherlock, don’t waste what we have.’

            He stares up at me, eyes widening at my every word.

            I grasp his head in my hands and kiss him and press my forehead against his brow.  And I close my eyes because I am afraid of how much I want him, how much I love him. How much I need him to say yes.

            ‘Oh John,’ he whispers.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow, John wakes up alone…


	4. Sherlock's decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes to find that Sherlock has made a firm decision about their future.

            When I wake I am alone.  The duvet beside me is cold.  I scramble to my feet, heart thudding with terror, and cry out his name.

            He is waiting for me in the living room, fully dressed and in his Belstaff, a small overnight bag packed at his feet.  He looks pale but his eyes are bright.

            The bag is small.  The relief is intense.  Where ever he is going, it won’t be for long.

            ‘Where are you off to?’

            ‘An excellent question, John,’ he says brightly.  I haven’t seen him looking this puckish since before he fell.  ‘Excellent observation.  Good man.  I am going to a spa for a break.  To recover.  I want to be fully well for you when I return.’

            I find myself blinking in confusion.  ‘For me?’

            ‘I’ve poured all your alcohol down the sink, in case you were wondering.  Even the bottle you had stowed in the loo cistern.  Of course, you could easily walk down to the off licence to get some more, but I don’t think you will.  I hope I am sufficient incentive to keep you on the waggon.’

            ‘How – how long are you-‘

            ‘Just a week, I think.  I should be much better by then.’

            ‘So you-?’

            ‘Yes, John,’ he says.  ‘Yes.’

            My stomach does a stupid back flip, and I am suddenly giddy as a schoolboy.

            He picks up his case.  ‘There’s a box in the bottom of my wardrobe.  One or two things you might want to familiarise yourself with before I get back.’

            He slips an arm about my waist and pulls me close.  I tip forward onto my toes so that I can raise myself up high enough to kiss him, and he sighs against my lips.

            ‘Oh, darling.’

            It is not a word I ever thought I would hear him use. If I were not so in love with him right now, I am sure I would find it comical.

            ‘Whatever you want, Sherlock,’ I whisper in his ear.  ‘Just remember how much I love you.’

            ‘Thank you for that,’ he tells me.  And with that he is out of the door and gone.

            I rush to the window and see him climb into a cab, still moving awkwardly, watch him settle himself uncomfortably on the seat.  It will probably take him longer than a week to recover from what he has been through, but I don’t care, so long as he is mine.

 

* * *

 

            The glow lasts until about six in the evening.  I’ve been bouncing around the flat, sorting and polishing, tidying piles of post and old papers.  I’ve cleaned out the grate and lit the fire.  Everything is looking straight and neat when I finally sit down and the reality dawns on me.

            It was too easy.

            This is Sherlock I’m talking about.  Sherlock doesn’t recognise love.  Sherlock doesn’t believe in sentiment.  Sherlock doesn’t do _anything_ the easy way.  And the man I’ve been living with since he came home from his three year sojourn in places unknown would never have given in to the temptation of affection as easily as this.  He has made it difficult , somehow.  I know it.

            The box in the bottom of the cupboard.

            I need a drink badly.  My hand is shaking.  I drag my suddenly leaden limbs out of the chair, and shuffle to his black hole of a bedroom – God, I hate this room, I realise.  It’s so dark and miserable.  It smells of damp and formaldehyde.  No wonder he’s been driven to such madness.

            It is an old cardboard box with ‘Jacobs Cream Crackers’ stamped on the sides in faded orange ink.  The corners are worn and frayed.  I open the top folds and rummage about in the debris for what I know will be there.  His eyes were so bright.  There could only be one reason why.

            Two little folds of white copier paper.

            I unfold one.  Inside is a little heap of white dust.

            Inside the other is nothing except his choppy handwriting, betraying his state of mind when he scrawled the words.

_I’m sorry John.  I couldn’t face the fear without it._

            That was why his eyes were so bright.  I sit back on my heels, and the little scrap falls from my fingers.

            He was high.

            He confessed to me, even while he was kissing me, while he was leaving.  A horrible pain scythes through my chest.  I scramble to my feet and hunt for my mobile:

**Found your little message.  If you don’t come home on Sunday night, I swear I will hunt you down.  You can’t escape this love, Sherlock.**

            I press the send button with my thumb and slump into the chair, my hand shaking so much that I drop the bloody phone onto the floor.  Sweat is starting to break out under my collar.  I need a drink.  But even if he has given in to his old addiction, I won’t give in to mine.  I won’t give him the satisfaction, apart from anything else.

            I sit there for a while, staring into the fire, mind racing over where he could be, what insanity he might be engaging in right now.  Then my fumbled phone beeps.

**Of course you found it, my darling.  Your dogged determination is one of your most charming traits.  And I have no intention of trying to escape.  But I can’t make things easy, you know that – S**

I text him back.

            **Come home, Sherlock.  Come home now.**

            My palms sweat while I wait for my reply.

            **Sunday at 7.  Put the kettle on. – S**

            I pace about, raking my fingers through my hair, trying to contain the rising panic, the twin fears of losing him and not having a drink inside me.  The phone beeps again.

            **And stop pacing about.  You’ll wear the carpet out and Mrs Hudson will be disgruntled.**

            And I laugh.  In the middle of all my angst, here he is, making a stupid joke because he knows me so well that he knows exactly what I’ll be doing right now, even if I have no idea where he is or what he’s up to.  And only Sherlock Holmes would use the word ‘disgruntled’ in a text, for God’s sake!  I want to text him back, tell him I love him, maybe even ring him, but I don’t.  He’d be just too smug to bear if I did.  Instead I sit back down in my chair and grin stupidly at the fire for half an hour before I decide its about time I ate something.

* * *

Tomorrow, John delves into the Cracker Box…

 

 


	5. Contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had instructed John to 'familiarise himself' with the contents of the Cracker Box. So...

            Half past ten and I am so desperate for a drink now that its either put on my coat and trudge down to the off license or find some serious distraction.  It is sleeting out there, lumps of ice hitting the window panes with a rattle like spent shell casings.  Too cold and too wet to give in to temptation, at least the alcoholic kind.  So I haul myself up and fetch his cardboard cracker box, set it down in front of the fire and get to work unpacking.

            Familiarise yourself, he said.  And I know from the look in his eyes that he didn’t mean it metaphorically.

            **#item:**   four pairs of handcuffs, Metropolitan Police issue, one with ‘LESTRADE’ scratched in shaky capitals on the side.  The poor inspector must have got so fed up with Sherlock nicking his stuff that he tried to indelibly mark it.

            **#item:** that bloody riding crop everyone goes on about, whilst wiggling their eyebrows suggestively.  Now at least I know why he’s got it.

            **#item:**   one paddle, for spanking I assume.  It looks well used and rather scuffed.  It occurs to me that he’s had it for years, since long before Moriarty came into our lives.  I examine it, wondering why anybody would find having their bottom smacked arousing, and concluding, probably erroneously, that maybe it’s a public school thing.

            **#item:** two leather wrist cuffs with metal shanks attached.

            **#item:** two leather ankle cuffs, also with shanks attached.  Presumably for anchoring his graceful body to some suitable piece of furniture. 

The image of him stretched out on his bed, stark naked, his skin gleaming, his muscles taut, floods my mind.  In a daze, I make my way to the bedroom and sure enough, if I push my hands down the edges of the mattress sufficiently, I can feel metal loops attached to the four corners of the wooden frame.  I wonder for a moment who has chained him up here, because he could not have done it by himself.  The thought of another man, or woman, having him here, under our shared roof, makes me feel queasy and I put it firmly out of my mind.  The important thing to remember from now on is that it will be me shackling him to this heavy wooden bedpost, and it will be me for whom his gorgeous body is laid out like a delectable dish on which to gorge at my leisure.

            Which is when I realise I am standing over his bed with my hand down the front of my jeans, squeezing rhythmically.  I hastily detach myself and make my way back to the living room, though I don’t know why my cheeks are burning when there is nobody here to see my desire.  Still, it feels forbidden.  I’ve cherished these feelings for so long, and now I realise it is going to be hard to let go of the reflex to conceal them.

            I settle myself on the floor by the fire, and continue unpacking the box.

            **#item:** one life-size flesh pink silicon dildo with balls attached.

            **#item:** one ridiculously large black silicon dildo with balls attached.  I pick them out and weigh them in my palms, amazed at how heavy these things are.  The big one is horrible.  It reminds me of the one that was attached to the machine last night, and the memory makes me shudder.  I make myself examine it, wonder what it might feel like to have this enormous object thrust into my own arse.  I worked enough hours in Bart’s casualty department in my youth to know the results of the wide variety of objects people ram into their rectums without a thought for the possible damage they could cause.  Oh, the joys of vacuum cleaner tubes!  It has left me with an understandable reticence to explore the joys of anal stimulation.  I suppose now I am going to have to be more adventurous, at least if I am hoping for a more equal relationship with Sherlock. 

I don’t want him to continue in this submissive role with me.  I want us to be making love in years to come, not just having kinky sex.  Maybe there will be occasions to play, I’ve nothing against that, but this over-reliance on bondage and humiliation for stimulation detracts from my longing for him, my ache to see him return my love in what I regard as a wholesome way.

            **#item:**   one stainless steel wand for sounding.  This really makes me feel sick as I handle it.  Actually, I don’t want to handle it, so I drop it onto the carpet.  But I have to think about it.  Familiarise yourself, he said, so I must face the fact that he, or someone else, at some point, has inserted this ten inch long metal probe into my darling’s urethra for the purposes of sexual gratification.  My eyes start running.  I can’t imagine how much this must hurt, never mind the risks of rupture, perforation and infection.  It makes anything I saw last night pale into insignificance by comparison.  But then, a hopeful little voice in the back of my mind pipes up, maybe he bought it and could never bring himself to use it.  Maybe he chickened out.  Hardly.  This is Sherlock we are talking about, the bravest man I have ever known.  If nothing else, last night proved he _never_ chickens out.

            This is the moment when I automatically reach over to the coffee table for the big glass of red wine that isn’t there.  I realise, too late, and my hand hovers outstretched, twitching.  Think about something else.  Think about love, about sex, about your new obsession.

            Sherlock.

            I delve into the box again.

            **#item:**   one object, black plastic, c-shaped, knobbed on one half, spoon-shaped on the other with a dial at the end.  It takes me a minute to work out what it is.

            Ah.

            A prostate massager.

            I imagine Sherlock inserting it into his anus, fitting the spoon-shaped part snugly against his perineum, and turning it on.  I twist the dial and it hums pleasantly in my hand.  Nice.  On a whim, I hold it against my half-erection (somewhat wilted from the consideration of sounding, I have to admit), and yes, it is very pleasant indeed.  The insertion end is fairly narrow, so that it looks manageable.  I can see myself using this.  Then a fantasy fills my head of myself lying on my back on Sherlock’s bed as he gently eases the thing into me, and then, with it humming deliciously against my sweet spot, takes my cock in his perfect mouth and sucks me off.

            It is a while before I surface from this delightful scenario, and by then I realise I have unzipped, and pulled my cock out of my pants to stroke it.  I am hard and dripping.  Fuck.  What this man does to me.  Maybe I should have a go now, while he’s away.

            But then I take one last look in the box.

            Apart from a large bottle of lube and a pack of condoms, there is one other thing.

            **#item:** one purple silk drawstring bag.

            It is the same cloth as his favourite shirt, I am sure of that.  I switch off the massager, lay it by my knees on the carpet, and draw out the bag, which is heavy.  There is something slithery inside.  I pull open the string and fish out the contents.

            **#item:**   white silk stockings with deep lace tops.  I realise how lovely they would look around his strong thighs.

            **#item:**   one silk-satin suspender belt, the same off-white as a good quality pearl, and with insets of heavy guipure lace, as well as an organza bow at the front.

            **#item:**   one silk-satin pair of panties (matching), pearl white with guipure lace.  ‘Panties’ is the only word that could be used for this triumph of the art of underwear design.  With wide sections of almost transparent silk on the hips, they are the ultimate in luxury, and they are gorgeous.  The fabric slithers in my hand deliciously.

            **#item:**   one silk-satin gentleman’s low cut corset with deep insets of lace and brocade, also pearl white.

            This is the point at which my brain short circuits.

            The image of Sherlock dressed in this magnificence is all I can see, a vision of silk and lace, his pale skin shimmering.

            I groan.  I can’t help it.  Sherlock in lingerie is something I never considered.  He is so tall, after all, so very, well, male.  But that is really the point.  It is the contrast between the broadness of his chest and shoulders and the femininity of his attire that makes the image so alluring.

            I wonder if he has ever worn this corset. I pick it up, run my hands over its slippery interior.  Has he been wearing it under his ordinary clothes (my cock positively lights up at this prospect)?  Has he been wearing it under this roof, at times when we have been talking or shouting, eating breakfast or tea, doing experiments or watching telly?  And if he has, what did it feel like?

            I press the silk to my face and inhale deeply.

            Yes, it is very faint, but it is unmistakable.  The scent of his body.  Rich and male and undoubtedly Sherlock.  The silk feels wonderful against my clean shaven cheeks and upper lip.

            The naughty little idea sneaks into my head.

            Oh, no, John, you couldn’t possibly.  Could you?

            But I am alone for another week, and after all he said, ‘familiarise yourself’…

* * *

 

Tomorrow, John decides to do some research of his own…

 


	6. John gets kinky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John seeks a way to forget his need for alcohol by making use of the Cracker Box's naughty contents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are beginning to cheer up, so stick with it. Smutfest follows...

             Minutes later I am locked in my bedroom, standing in front of the mirror.

            It turns out women’s lingerie is not easy to put on when you have no experience and no one to help you.  I almost put my thumbs through the silk stockings.  My cock barely fits inside the panties flaccid, and now, when I am insanely hard, it pokes from the waistband, the elastic digging into the shaft uncomfortably.  And trussing myself into a corset, especially one tailor-made for a man who is a substantially different shape to me, is not an easy task.

            The trouble is that it feels fantastic.  The silk rides my skin in a cloud of delicate sensation.  I feel like I’m wrapped in rose petals.  I think of him similarly enfolded and my balls ache with need.

            This is one kink I am definitely willing to entertain.

            The only other problem with it, apart of from the obvious access issues, is that silk stains badly.  Lube and semen are going to wreck this costly outfit, and it is obvious that Sherlock has been extremely careful to avoid that.  I want to keep the corset on, but the rest will have to come off if I am to pursue my plan for this evening.  The demands of my penis are the only thing that is keeping me separate from a bottle of Talisker, after all.  I reason that it is in my liver’s interests to experiment.

            The stockings, suspenders and panties come off, however reluctantly.  Now it is time for something even more daring.

            I start with a condom, pulling it over the bulbous end of the prostate massager.  The box contained a liberal supply and although I am pretty sure I am clean, I haven’t washed myself out so it is only sensible from a hygiene point of view, regardless of any infection concerns I might have.  I lay out a towel on the floor and kneel on it, spreading my thighs sufficiently to get my hand in between.  I spend a little time on my cock and balls, caressing, enjoying.  If this all goes to pot, I want to at least be able to say not just that I tried, but that I enjoyed some of it.  Then I reach for the bottle of lube.  Sherlock is clearly no ascetic when it comes to sexual lubrication, no matter how much he wants pain.  I smother my fingers with the sticky goo and slide my hand down over my cock, past my balls to rub my perineum.  I’ve never fingered myself before.  Its all new to me, but I’m a doctor and my knowledge of anatomy is excellent, so I figure I can’t go too badly astray.  I circle my fingertips around my hole, observing the sensations and trying to relax the muscles in my pelvic floor as much as I can.  The anus is packed with nerve endings, but it is still a surprise that a gentle caress to this part of my body can feel so pleasant.  It occurs to me that I could learn a lot from Sherlock.  The fact that I have reached the grand old age of 42 and am so ill acquainted with my body’s responses is a shame to say the least.  This feels good, and I begin to realise what I have been missing.

            I go a little further, slip a fingertip in, and the ring of muscle tightens reflexively.  I take it slowly, working my cock with my free hand, and am amazed at the amplification of pleasure that results.  A little more effort and I am up to my middle knuckle, and the room is full of an obscene squelching noise.  That in itself is surprisingly erotic.

            I decide to go for broke.

            I lube up the massager and ease it into my body in place of my finger.  It feels unyielding and cold, but I work it in and out a bit, taking it slow so as not to force my sphincters into a painful spasm.  The heat of my body warms the plastic until the intrusion feels less alien, and I ease it in a little more.  Now the internal muscles start to work, naturally pulling the toy deeper.  Still, by the time I have managed to take the entire length, my whole body is dripping with sweat and my legs are screaming from being folded under me for so long.  I’ve probably already wrecked the silken corset so I pull it off, and suddenly miss the caress of it holding me.  I wonder if that is what Sherlock’s arms will feel like, wrapped around me.  That’s sentiment, and he’d hate it, but I’m a sentimental man.  And his love is what I want. 

Tonight is not about love, though, at least not right now.  It is about distracting myself from his absence, and from my own drive to drink.  So I struggle over onto my back, feeling like a flipped tortoise, and give myself a moment to acclimatise.  I feel full, stretched.  The mouth of my anus burns, but I can feel the pressure inside, on the right place, and it is teeth-clenchingly good.

            I take a deep breath, and turn the dial.

            Instantly the world lights up and fireworks start exploding inside my pelvis.

            ‘Oh, fuck!’

            This isn’t going to take long.  I grip my cock in both hands and start wanking for all I’m worth, my head filling with the idea of Sherlock’s mouth in place of my fists.

            The orgasm unfurls like a bullwhip.  I come so hard that I scream (thank God Mrs Hudson has gone to stay with her sister).  The sharp, snapping waves overtake me, and I am writhing on the towel, my balls pumping, my back, bowels, legs, everything, engulfed in sparkling white heat.

            Consciousness floods back to me in a shock of over-sensitivity and I fumble desperately to turn the infernal machine off, then lie there gasping like a beached fish.  I can’t believe what just happened to me.  There are still lights at the back of my eyes, flashing.  How can sex be this intense?

            When I finally stop shaking, I ease the massager out of my arse and drop it on the towel.  Everything relaxes.  I’m sore, but Oh, God, I feel so good.  Who needs booze when you can have this?  I realise now how people get addicted to sex.  I tug the towel up to wipe my belly and then just lie there, staring at the ceiling.  I wonder if he felt this good last night, I wonder if all those men fucking him made him come this hard.  I wonder if I can ever make him feel this good.

            And then I find I am crying.  Lying on my back on my bedroom floor, stark naked, on a spunky towel, a grown man afraid of his own shadow, and afraid of how much he loves the man who is the centre of his life, this man who has a gaping fissure through his soul that I may never be able to bridge.

 

* * *

 

             It takes four days for me to ride out my cold turkey, which I realise thankfully is nothing.  It shows how early on I am in the progression of my disease.  To be frank, Sherlock’s cracker box, as I have come to think of it, has helped a lot.  I’ve had more orgasms in the last four days than I’ve had since I was about 12 and just discovering masturbation.  I’ve tried out everything in the box except the sounding wand.  (I’m trying to work out a way of discreetly throwing it away without Sherlock noticing, which of course he will do, immediately.)  I was careful to leave one hand free when using the cuffs, so I could avoid the embarrassment of having to be rescued from much a compromising position, but I got the gist of why it can be so exciting.  The spanking paddle left me cold – I presume it must require two people for the full effect.  Even the smaller dildo is going to take a lot more practise.  I’ve been through three sets of batteries with the prostate massager.  I’ve had to put an internet order in for more of his favourite lube.  And I’ve had the lingerie professionally dry-cleaned.

            After four days, yes, I reckon I’ve pretty much got it all out of my system.

            He sends me a text twice a day, morning and night.  Each one says the same thing, but it is his way of reassuring me that he will return:

**Continuing to improve.  Back 7pm Sunday.  Put the kettle on. S**

            I miss him, horribly.  Not because of sex, and not because I am so used to all the row he makes stomping about the house, doing his ‘Being Sherlock’ thing.  I miss him because this separation reminds me of what it was like after he jumped.  Those three long years of hopelessness, of life lived without colour or light.  Sometimes I catch myself thinking I’ve dreamt his return and here I am, back again in my days of mourning.

            And then one of his stupid, repetitive texts arrives and I am walking on air for an hour or two with relief.

  

* * *

         

             On the fifth day, I start to think clearly.  The post-orgasmic haze has worn off, and I haven’t had a drink for a full working week.  I realise I need to think about what I’m going to do in two days, when he gets home.  I lie on the sofa and imagine what it will be like when he walks through the door on Sunday night.  I speculate on the words we will say to one another.  I think about how I want to feel, how I want him to feel.  I realise that it is up to me to set the tone, to make him see what a functional relationship between us will look like.  I start making plans. 

I go out shopping.  The credit card takes a hammering, but decent silk sheets don’t come cheap.  When I put them on the bed for the first time, though, I realise the expense is worth it.  They look amazing, and feel even better.  I am tempted to strip off and roll around on them, just to experience them against my skin.  I don’t.  I want to save them for him.  I want to share that first silken touch with him, to associate that feeling with his body, with us.

I buy more candles than I can reasonably carry home, enough to cover every available surface.  And then worry about whether I’m going to set the whole house on fire.

And let me tell you, fresh rose petals don’t come cheap in December.

I ring Molly and ask her if she knows what I could drink that’s like champagne but is non-alcoholic.  I have no idea why she presented herself in my mind as the person who would know, but she suggests Elderflower Presse.  I borrow an ice bucket from Mrs Hudson (ignoring the inquiring looks asking for it provokes), and buy a six pack of bottles from the supermarket, along with a bag of ice and some extortionately priced chocolate ice cream.  Sherlock’s favourite brand doesn’t come cheap.  Of course. 

Then I clean the house from top to bottom.  If nothing else, it keeps my hands occupied while I wait.

And it’s a long wait.

* * *

 

Tomorrow, Sherlock comes home…

 


	7. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets home from his spa, and John hopes all his preparations will be worth it.

Sunday evening comes.  I am freshly showered and shaved, dressed in a shirt I know he likes, and a pair of clean jeans.  My stomach is fluttery, my heart beats fast.  I pace about, in and out of the bedroom, checking the set-up, the candles, glancing at myself in the mirror, then pacing out again.  I sit down the sofa, get up, sit down on the chair, get up, check the view from the window, sit down again.

Calm down, John, calm down.

I really need a drink.  I wonder if he’s had anything to keep him going.  I wonder if he will be as nervous as me.  I wonder if he will even turn up.

Then I hear the familiar rattle of a black cab engine, the squeal of brakes as it pulls up at the door, the crump of the car door as it slams.

I get up, swallow hard in a dry throat, hope the shake of my hand doesn’t show.

The sound of his key in the door.  Footsteps on the stair.

And then he is there, standing at the door, in a swirl of tweed.

‘John?’

I go to him.  I think he is surprised, but I won’t be deflected.  I have imagined this moment, gone through it a thousand times in my mind.  It is all scripted out.

I reach up and raise his eyebrow, his eyelid, with my thumb, peer closely at his pupils, check his nose of traces of white powder.  Then I push back his sleeves to check for punctures.

He just gives me a wry smile.

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Do you blame me?’

‘No.’  He laughs.  ‘I promise I’ve been good.’

‘So have I.’ I look up at him, find myself gazing into his eyes.  They are bright and sharp and the colour of sea glass.  I reach up and pull his head down, press his brow to mine and close my eyes.

‘I missed you,’ I whisper.

I can feel his breath on my face, smell his aftershave and the musk of his skin.

He sighs.  ‘It was terrible, without you.’

‘Better now,’ I tell him, softly.

‘Yes, better now.’

And we stand there, gently holding each other, eyes closed, resting in one another’s presence.

 

* * *

 

 I make him close his eyes.

‘This is childish.’

‘Do as you are told.’

‘When have you _ever_ known me to do as I’m told?’

‘Just this once, Sherlock?’

‘You’re pleading,’ he says as I take both his hands a guide him, walking backwards myself.  ‘Pleading is undignified.’

‘Shut the fuck up, love?  For me?’

He smirks.  With his eyes screwed shut.  He looks ridiculous.  I love him all the more.

I manoeuvre him into the bedroom and shut the door softly behind us.  The air is thick with hot candlewax and the delicate scent of the rose petals I have strewn on the bed.  The light flickers.  For a moment I allow myself to see him in the soft glow, before he sees me.  Unaware of my gaze, his face in repose, he is dazzling.  I feel like a monk in a holy shrine, full of devotion.  His skin gleams, his hair is glossy.  He bites his lower lip, betraying his nerves.  My idol.  My dream.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ I say and he does, and I see him blink, do a double take.

‘Well!’

‘What do you think?’

‘Silk sheets?  Bit extravagant.’

‘I wanted it to be as different as possible from, well, you know.’

‘No saw horses then.’

‘Don’t.’

Despite his sarcasm, I can see the tiny twitch in his eyelid.  He is touched.

He turns the bottle around in the ice bucket so that he can read the label.  The ice grinds against the glass.

‘Elderflower,’ he says. ‘Dear John.  Such a romantic.’

‘You are impossible.’

‘I never said I would be anything else.’

I pull him against me and kiss him.  His body softens, his hands slide up my back as his mouth opens to mine.  I tangle my fingers in his hair, tug gently, and he growls in the base of his throat.  Basso profundo.  We devour each other’s lips.  We come up for air, panting.

‘You,’ he breathes.

I slip his black jacket over his shoulders, run my hands run across muscles I have longed to touch, couched in soft white cotton.  His clever fingers make light work of the buttons on my own shirt.  He slides a cool hand inside and I gasp at his touch on my chest.  I pull back his collar and press my lips to the skin there.  He tastes so good, slightly of vanilla.  He finds my mouth again. 

I push him back a little, and he frowns, perhaps hurt.

‘Shoes and socks,’ I say, by way of explanation.

‘Oh.  Yes.’

I remember we once had a silly conversation about how unsexy shoes and socks were on a man when sex is approaching.  Black socks especially.  And yes, we were _very_ drunk.  I know he is remembering that now, as he uses one hand to steady himself on the bed while he bends down to tear black socks off his long bony feet.

Then we are facing one another, bare foot, wide eyed, vulnerable.

‘John?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you sure?  You don’t have to, you know.  We could just-‘

‘I want to make love to you,’ I tell him.  ‘I want to hold you in my arms, and kiss you, and caress you, and make you feel more loved and more wanted than anybody else ever has, or ever will.  Do you understand?’

I reach up and run my fingers over his smooth cheek.  His eyes brim.

‘I don’t understand why.’

‘Because I love you and I want to be with you.’

‘But-‘

‘No, Sherlock.  No more buts.’

And I kiss him.  He melts against me with a moan.  Finally he is mine.

 

* * *

 

 Silk sheets do, as they say, what it says on the tin.

We are delirious with sensation as we roll on them, naked as the day we were born.  Chest to chest.  Belly to belly, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.  Locked together at the mouth.  His erection jabs into me.  I want him so badly I am shaking.

He rolls on top of me, and I grab a handful of his luxuriant buttock.  He grinds his hips.  Our cocks rub together.  This is not sex.  Well, not just sex.  This is like a Vulcan mind-meld.  Except it is our bodies melding as much as our minds, melting together.

I roll on top of him.  Lying on his back, gravity smoothes his features and his cheekbones become ever more sculpted.  His lips are a sultry pout.  He throws back his head, rolling his eyes, and moans.

‘More, more.’

His arms are around me, a girdle of silk.  I was right.  It is just like the corset.  Only better.  Warm, strong arms.  Living, responding arms.  Hands splayed out on my back, long fingers spread wide, playing me as he does his violin.  He kneads my backside, urging me on, but I pull back.

‘No, I want it to be gentle, I want it to be loving.’

‘Fucking can be loving,’ he pants.  ‘You being inside me can be loving.  I remember-‘

‘Don’t.’

‘John, no one else has ever made me feel that way.’

I can feel my eyes grow wide as I look down at him.  I can see the honesty in his face.  His pupils are blown with need, a faint glaze of perspiration in his upper lip.

‘Love me,’ he whispers.  ‘Love me like no one else can.’

 

* * *

 

 I’ve never done this before, but I’m damned if I’m not going to be fantastic at it first bloody time.  I’ve read enough ruddy sex manuals in the last few days.  Its going to be like a hot knife through butter, whatever it takes.

He is on his hands and knees, offering himself to me.  I told him I was worried about how much he could take.  I told him I wanted it to be different, new, but he confessed he was not a natural top.  So he offers me his magnificent arse and I kneel to worship.  I lay my hands on either side, gently ease the cheeks apart, and let the doctor in me check first.

He is sore but not damaged.  I will gentle him through this.

I use my mouth.  Lick and tongue.  He tastes salty, earthy; smells softly of maleness.  His skin is smooth here, puckered there, with a little sprinkling of hair.  He moans when I press my tongue in, but not with pain.  Inside, he is soft and satiny.  I take it slow.  I don’t want to hurt him, but the side effect of my caution is to make him frantic with need.  He keens and rocks his hips but cannot make me go faster.  I reach between his legs and stroke him, which seems to make him even more desperate.  Now he is pushing back onto my face and I am thrusting deep into him, ravenous in spite of myself.

‘Please,’ he moans.  ‘Please?’

‘Now who’s pleading?’

He groans.  ‘I need you!  And I don’t need anybody!’

If I had actual buttons, he would be pushing them like a bloody pinball wizard.

* * *

 My fingers are in his mouth.  He sucks and slurps and my cock twitches, keeping time.  Its indecent what this man can do with his tongue.  He looks up at me, eyes like jewels.  Laves at the pads, rasping like a cat.  Oh God, Sherlock.

Fingers wet, I stroke him, work them into them, taking it slow, being gentle while he moans and writhes.  Oh God.  Sherlock.

There is lube, sticky fluid, running on my fingers, on my cock, smearing my belly, his buttock.  Oh.  Sherlock.

I hold myself steady, press in.  He leans back into me.  He makes a guttural sound. 

Somehow, I don’t know how, I am inside him.

White heat and stars.

‘John, please?  I need to see your face.’

I ease out, he turns over, I enter him again.  He wraps his long, long legs around me.  Our bellies press together, his cock trapped between us.  I let myself down onto my elbows.  We kiss.  We say nothing.  We move.  Together.  As one.  With the scent of rose petals in our nostrils, and silk on our skins, we gaze into each other’s eyes and never break that look.  Inside he is hot, tight, hungry.  His nails score my skin.  His hips snap up to meet mine, eager to consume all they can, as if his very skin is whispering ‘deeper, deeper’, until I am lost with him, in him.

‘Don’t let me go,’ he breathes.

‘Never,’ I whisper.  ‘Never.’

He cries out then, but it is not the plaintive, wretched cry I heard before.  It is the tremulous cry of joy, an ululation.  I feel his body shake under me, around me, pumping, pulsing, tightening, feel the wet heat on our bellies.  Tears stream from the corners of his eyes, down over his temples, into his hair.

I love him.  I love him.

I come.

Like standing in a waterfall.  Like being the waterfall.  Deep inside his body I gush and shake, giving him my heat.  Then I fall forward, sob my love into the curve of his neck.

* * *

 Tomorrow, the post-coital glow…

 


	8. Oh Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying the post-coital glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Well, this is the last episode, timed for Christmas Eve. Thank you all for reading, commenting and following along. I’d like to wish you all a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year. May the 1st January 2014 bring you all the Sherlockyness you desire.
> 
> (And please remember, comments are the best present for writers.)

His arm is thrown carelessly across my chest.  His head rests on my good shoulder.  I run my fingers through his curls absently, aware of the sensation of the strands running over my skin, of his body the length of my side.  We have slept for a few hours, and woken in the grey light of a December morning, suddenly hyper-aware of each other’s nakedness.

Presently, he lifts his head and traces the edge of my scar, eyes keenly observing.

‘So what’s with the sheets?  Or need I ask?’

‘You said familiarise yourself.’

‘But you couldn’t bring yourself to dress up for me?’  He tilts his head, with an impish smirk.

‘You’d look so much better in ivory silk,’ I grin.

‘I know you tried them on,’ he said, self-satisfied.

‘Of course I did.’

‘I shall buy you a set of your own.  Properly fitted.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I sigh.  ‘I think I’d like that to be just for you.  You know, a little bit of dressing up, just for a treat.  I don’t want to be doing kinky stuff all the time.’

He strokes a fingertip around the brown ring of my nipple aureole, watching fascinated as it tightens under his touch.

‘You are a source of endless surprises.’

‘I doubt it.  Not for the great Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I assure you, that is part of your allure.  I have no idea where to start with reading you.  I certainly could not have predicted you would decline the offer of corsetry.’

I laugh at him.  ‘I’m not saying I don’t like it.  It feels great.  There’s just something about the idea of you in it.’

‘Trussed up like the heroine of some Victorian bodice-ripper for you to rescue?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Its not daft, it’s a perfectly reasonable fantasy.  Don’t try to tell me you don’t have any fantasies.’

‘Well, its funny you should say that…’

He grins at me, and raises an eyebrow.  Oh God.  Here we go.

 

* * *

 

 Christmas has spread its tinsel tendrils out across London.  Every available surface is glazed with it.  Oxford Street is crammed with neurotic shoppers.  Lights swing in the bitter wind.  Not that we notice.  We have spent the last week lost in each other, barely leaving the flat.  Sherlock has turned down two excellent cases.  The second time he did it, I actually took his temperature and pulse!

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, we are slouching on the sofa, much as we have done for days, at least when not in bed.  He lies on his back, with his head on my thighs while I feed him chocolate coins.  Now, there was another secret I had not suspected.  Sherlock Holmes is obsessed with chocolate coins.  He can’t get enough.  We’ve been through seven bags this week.  I keep having to dash out to the newsagent on the corner for more.  Tonight, around my ankles, a scree of their little foil skins is building up.  I have the waxy, sickly chocolate under all my fingernails from picking the gold and silver shells off them.  He won’t do it himself.  He insists on being fed, like some debauched Roman emperor, lying in my lap.

‘You know these are not a food group, right?’

‘Mmmmm,’ he says, sugary brown sludge gathering at the corners of his mouth.  I make a mental note to get some of that chocolate body paint.

‘No excuse not to eat your tea, right?’

He gives me a look that I can only describe as ‘old fashioned’.

‘John, I have managed to jettison all my other, far more damaging addictions in favour of two:  you and chocolate coins.  I hardly think you have cause to worry.’

‘You ate all the chocolate tree decorations too,’ I say, and can’t keep the disappointment out of my tone.  They were really nice ones too, little golden teddy bears made out of Belgian chocolate.  He waives a dismissive hand.

‘There’ll always be more.’

‘Not tonight.  The shops are shut now, and nowhere will be open again till Boxing Day.’

‘Then we’ll just have to fall back on my other addiction,’ he says, running the pink tip of his tongue around his sumptuous lips.

Which sets my mind racing again.  Off to the Cracker Box.

In recent days we have explored it’s every permutation.  A series of tableaux fill my mind, memories of pleasures enjoyed.  Sherlock laid out on the bed, shackled hand and foot to the bedstead, his pearlescent skin glistening with sweat as I pleasure him.  Myself in a similar position, as he kneels over me, sliding the prostate massager into my body before he rides me with utter abandon.  Sherlock parading around the house in nothing but that silken corset and his lace-topped stockings.  The long showers and baths we have taken together.  The long nights, stretched out in one another’s arms.

I haven’t even thought of wanting a drink.

(Oh, and in case you are wondering, I took the ‘I am your doctor and I know what’s good for you’ approach with the sounding wand.  I issued an edict that it was never to be used on pain of, well, pain.  He took it from my hand and threw it out of the window without even blinking.  I think it might have dented the roof of a passing car, but I’m not certain because by that point I was kissing him into a breathless heap.)

Suddenly he sits up, sharp and alert, snapping me out of my reverie.

‘John, look at the tree,’ he says.

We put up the tree earlier in the day.  He sneered that it was too ‘coupley’ a thing to do together, and then proceeded to go mad with the tinsel.  Now our Christmas tree has a slightly drunken lean to the left, and looks like an explosion in a decorations factory.  Sherlock might be the apotheosis of chic when it comes to clothes but his taste in Yuletide décor seems to have got stuck at the age of four.  As with so many things, Sherlock doesn’t know when to stop.

‘The tree, yes,’ I say.  It sparkles.  It shines.  It is covered in tiny lights that wink on and off.

‘Commit it to memory,’ he commands.  ‘Put it in your mind palace.’

‘I don’t have a mind palace,’ I grumble.  ‘If I did, it would be more of a bungalow.  Or maybe a council house.  Only you would have a bloody palace.’

‘Look at the tree, John,’ he insists.

‘Yes, yes, alright.’

‘Imprint it upon your mind.’

‘Sherlock-‘

‘Because from now on, whenever you see a Christmas tree, you are going to think of me.’

‘But-‘

‘See how it’s lit up?  That’s what you do to me, John.  That’s how you make me feel.  How you’ll always make me feel.  Glowing.  Like that tree.  And I want to be certain you never forget it.’

As if I could.

* * *

THE END - and Merry Christmas Everybody!

 


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